That Perches In The Soul
by rockpaperscissor
Summary: Sam will take anything over being the last Winchester again. But the stakes are higher than anyone expects, and the choices the Winchesters make will mean everything. In this story of the end of the world, only one Winchester can be left standing.
1. when your mind's made up

**_That Perches In The Soul_**

* * *

_A/N: Okay. Guys, this is my take on how I think things are rolling in the SPN verse. I kind of hope not, but at the same time, it just makes so much sense to me that... I don't know, you might think different. Anyway, it's EPIC. Probably the epic-est fic I've ever written. _

_And also? Has so consumed my life, you don't even know. So if I could hear some feedback on this, I'll be incredibly grateful.  
_

_I took the title from a line in Emily Dickinson's poem, Hope._

* * *

_Warning: Spoilers for all aired episodes up to 4x16. Also, heavily edited and rewritten as of 7/27/11.  
_

* * *

Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul,  
And sings the tune-without the words,  
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;  
And sore must be the storm  
That could abash the little bird  
That kept so many warm...

* * *

**_Now_**

"My lady? He's here."

Blue eyes widen, then crinkle at the corners. Without a word, the little girl kicks her legs and jumps off the swing, arms spread open as if to fly, and for a long moment, it's almost as though she does.

But instead the girl lands neatly in his arms, and her weight is so slight Sam only has to take a tiny step back to adjust. She's warm - a comfortable, somehow vulnerable burden, and it's no trouble at all to hoist her up a bit so they can both be more comfortable.

She burrows her nose into his chest as she attempts to wrap herself around him, little arms so very far from reaching all the way across.

"I've waited so long for you, Sammy," she breathes, then glances up, eyes big with the solemnity of a child. "I didn't mean to hurt you, before – just, I didn't really think you'd join us, and I was..." her voice lowers, "...angry." Her mouth trembles, fragile, and she looks so pitiful Sam's heart constricts. "You're not... you're not still mad at me, are you?"

Sam smiles down at her and shakes his head. He starts walking. "Not at all," he confides, feeling his own eyes crinkle.

She grins at him in relief, and suddenly the small arms loop around his neck and hug him tightly. Her cheek is feathery soft against his rough stubble, and a sigh explodes out of him in a shudder, as if this is what he's waited for, as if all his life had been leading up to this.

And he knows, suddenly, with a clarity that comes only rarely, that inside him something is drowning.

Her grip tightens, and Sam smiles.

In a good way, though.

"So - so you're ready?" she asks when she finally draws back, blue eyes searching his own. Her words said in a hushed, excited whisper, and she bounces in his arms. "You're really really ready?"

"Really really ready," he tells her fondly.

"Oh good," Lilith sighs, then looks behind Sam and beams. "He says he's ready, Ruby!"

Ruby smiles back at them, and for a moment, it's almost like they're family.

"Of course he is, my lady. After all, I made sure of it."

_**Then**_

"…Sam?"

Sam's eyes flutter open. He squints against the harsh white fluorescent light, a moan tumbling from his mouth at the interruption before it cuts off abruptly; he straightens quickly when he remembers where he is.

And, more importantly, who he's with.

"Dean?" he croaks out, blinking rapidly as he adjusts to the light.

Green eyes follow his movements from between swollen lids - a disconcerting sight, but God, he's _missed_ that green. "The one and only," his brother says, and Sam is too relieved at hearing Dean's voice, at seeing Dean breathe without something inside him, to immediately notice that something's wrong.

_The one and only. _

The line's worn, routine, even welcome for all that it's gloriously cliché, but in all its reiterations it has never once been said with such disinterest. It's like Dean's reluctantly following a script; his voice is just as listless as it is hoarse.

The relief promptly vanishes. It's infuriating, this apathy, for all its newfound familiarity in his brother, and it _rankles_, stabbing Sam sharply somewhere deep inside. He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from shaking his brother's frail shoulders, from snapping out a cruel and uncalled-for retort, from _cramming _that fucking breathing tube back down his fucking brother's throat because anything would be better than this, anything would be better than a Dean who didn't care - and how dare he, how_ dare _he sound like this when Sam's here, when Sam's _right here, _trying to help –

Power whistles through his veins, begging and suggesting and offering, there's nothing wrong with a little force – _how dare he –_

He chokes it off, reminds himself that this is Dean, this is his _brother_.

Even if he is acting like a pod person.

So instead Sam tries to smile encouragingly at the pitiful effort, puts a hand on Dean's bandaged shoulder and doesn't take it off even when his brother flinches. "It's good to have you back, man," he says, and squeezes lightly, so it won't hurt. "You had me worried."

Dean looks at him oddly, as if wondering where this is coming from, but then just shuts his eyes. "Oh yeah?"

He swallows past the anger, the bitterness, the shame. If nothing else, this is driving home perfectly how far apart they've drifted these past months, if his brother doesn't even expect the basics from him anymore. "Of course," Sam says, trying to sound offended, but trying harder to not make it sound like a lie.

Dean almost smiles, but the _almost_ is such that it's probably more accurate to just say that he doesn't. "Didn't think you'd be here," he admits, a tired whisper.

Sam's blood boils, pounds against his ears, and again he has to remind himself that this is his brother, that this is _Dean_. "Of course I - I've barely moved from this chair in the past three days, Dean," he grits out, and adds, just in case Dean needs reminding as well, "I'm your _brother_."

"I know," Dean says, with his eyes still closed.

And Sam hears, _wasn't sure if you did_.

He looks at Dean's vitals for a long moment, listens to the slow, steady beeping of the heart monitor, a throbbing reminder of how grateful he should be that they're having this conversation at all. And then he stares blankly across his brother's bed , before covering his face in his hands and breathing in deep. Dean has had it bad enough without adding Sam's… irritability, into the mix.

He resorts to a safer topic. "How're you feeling?"

The green shows itself for only a moment, hastily hiding back again. Sam isn't sure whether to be offended or worried. "Sucky."

His lips quirk briefly, and he doesn't know if he's glad Dean's making light of the pain or worried that he's acknowledging it in the first place. "Thought so," he says, and hesitates. There are things Sam wants to ask - about Alastair, about angels, about being forced to… torture, again, but somehow his brother seems even more broken than he was before he got kidnapped by Castiel, and Sam doesn't think he can handle finding out if there are any more cracks in Dean's armor. "Want me to get someone?"

"I'm good," Dean answers, which is such an obvious lie it's not even funny anymore.

"Really?" he can't help but say. "Because newsflash, you're actually kind of looking like _crap_."

His brother turns his head away. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when you're God's bitch," he says bitterly.

And suddenly it hits him, with all the delicate subtlety of a brick. "Cas was here," he half-states, half-asks.

Dean blinks up and meets Sam's gaze. "Yeah."

The sudden urge to bash the angel's head in is so overpowering that Sam actually gets a headache. It isn't even just that he obviously made Dean feel like shit, but the mere fact that Castiel took advantage of Sam's absence and saw Dean wake up, that he was the first to greet him back from his week-long coma – when it's _Sam's_ job, _Sam's_ privilege – is enough for Sam to want to get homicidal. Angel-cidal. _Whatever_.

Just as abruptly, however, comes the realization that if Castiel had seen Dean awake before him, he very well might have told Sam's brother things that Sam would really rather his brother didn't know at all.

"What…" He wets his lips, mouth suddenly gone dry. "What'd he say?"

Dean stares at him for what seems like eternity. Sam looks back apprehensively and tries not to squirm. He gets the odd feeling that he's being judged.

Dean tells him.

Sam wishes he hadn't.

**_Now_**

They approach a wide circle of people with pitch-dark eyes. Lilith claps, grins. "Sacrifices," her sweet voice explains in Sam's ear. "They have to be willing, see."

She flaps her arms, a clear command. Sam sets her gently on the ground, and she skips across the empty graveyard to one of them, a round man with a receding hairline who kneels and reverently hands her a thin, ornate brush. She beams at him brightly.

...And then jams the paintbrush through his carotid artery.

He falls to the floor, smile on his lips even as he chokes on the blood sliming out of his mouth. His body seizes, flashes oddly as the demon dies along with the host, and the snowy palm of Lilith's hand becomes splattered with red.

She stares at the broken handle, pouting. "I need a new one!" she says shrilly. "A new one! I need a –"

Another demon from the circle – a boy no older than fifteen – offers Lilith a new brush, shyly. She takes it graciously, curtsying prettily in her stained new dress as she thanks him with sudden aplomb.

"One down," she sings, then dips the brush in the spurt of blood, and begins to draw.

_**Then**_

Sam runs a hand through his hair. His eyes scour the walls of the bland little motel room, but if they hold any answers he can't find them.

"You're absolutely sure," he says again, one last time. "This is the only way."

Ruby's black eyes show something oddly reminiscent of sympathy. "Only way I can think of." She watches him silently for a moment, then says, "Look, Lilith is going for the last seal, with or without you. If you got a better idea, well, feel free to share."

He paces, throws a glance at the clock in the wall almost nervously even though he knows there's nothing to worry about. Dean is back at their own motel across town, asleep, for all intents and purposes dead to the world.

…Which isn't much of a change from when he's awake, these days.

Sam sighs, scrubs at his face roughly. "No. You're right." He stops pacing and heavily slumps into the bed. "You're sure you can do this?"

"For your sake, Sam, I'm going to pretend you didn't just ask me such an incredibly _stupid _question."

He raises his head, meeting her gaze sharply. "Ruby."

She rolls her eyes, folds her arms. "Yes, I'm sure, okay? I did it before, I'll do it again. Deception is my middle name."

"I know," he says flatly, making her flinch.

She shakes her head and walks to him, straddling his hips when she gets close. "Trust me, Sammy," Ruby whispers, a caress of breath against his cheek. "The last thing I want to do is give away our endgame. I want Lilith dead just as much as you do, you know."

"I know," he says, and absently threads his fingers through her hair. "I just… this has to be convincing, Ruby."

The demon presses her lips against his mouth, and smiles.

"Don't worry about that, Sam. I have a feeling it will be exactly that."

**_Now_**

It takes longer than he expects.

The little girl hums merrily out of tune as her strokes soon take on the shape of huge interwoven circles, painted with the blood of humans and energies of demons. Thanks to Ruby's blood and his own, Sam can actually _see _the entirety of it, the curves and lines and words drawn both on the ground and in the air, invisible to the normal human eye. It's a spectacular interweaving of sickly yellow light and red markings.

He has yet to decide whether the bodies, neatly arranged in a circle, add or detract from its beauty.

_**Then**_

He turns off the Impala's engine with a familiar quarter-turn of his hand and pockets the keys in his jacket. One foot is already out the door before Sam stops, realizing he's the only one moving.

"Dean? You coming?"

His brother's eyes are shut. "Think I'll just sit here for a while."

He furrows his forehead. "It's eighty degrees out, Dean. Are you trying to melt your brain?" He tries on a sad imitation of a smirk. "Or, you know, one of the two brain cells you have left?"

Once Dean would have responded to that with a leer, maybe declared how interesting it is that those two neurons of his beat out Sam's giant head in poker last night. Once Sam would have rolled his eyes and informed his brother that in this case, less is definitely _not_ more, and anyway, Dean, you cheated. Once, they would have glared and jabbed at each other until someone either threw up his arms in defeat or finally burst out laughing.

Once, they would have laughed.

Without opening his eyes, Dean cranks open his window. "I'm good."

"You…" he trails off. Then gives up, throat tight. "Yeah, okay. I'll be back in a few."

He stretches out his legs, gasses up the Impala and goes to the john, all in less than ten minutes. He eats alone, glancing through the window at the forlorn black car in the middle of the lot, and reflects on how strange this all is, to feel alone when he really isn't anymore.

Except Sam can't really complain. Partly because yeah, you could say he's brought all this on himself, but mostly because even this is ten times better than feeling alone when you really _are_.

He'll take anything over being the last Winchester again.

Sam walks aimlessly around the gas station for a while until he finally thinks he's given it enough time. He returns to the car, cranes his head through the passenger side window. "Anything I can get you?" he tries.

His brother's smile is just a curve of the lips, nothing more. "Nah," he says.

…And that's it. That's all Dean says.

"I saw the Gasmart guy put out some fresh donuts," he wheedles. "Extra sprinkles."

Eyes still closed, Dean shrugs. It's a tiny, tired movement, almost invisible, and it only accentuates the newfound boniness of his shoulders. "Not hungry."

That's it, the apocalypse really is coming, Sam thinks wearily. "You sure? They even have those custard-filled ones you like. Custard _and_ sprinkles, even, it's our lucky day." He waits. "Well? What do you say?"

At that, Dean finally opens his eyes. Sam gets a baffled look. "It's okay."

He scowls, on the verge of protesting that no it's _not _okay, _you're _not okay but you have to let me _make _you okay, but before the words come out Sam catches himself and stops. It won't do any good, and Dean would just ignore him, anyway.

"How about a burger?" he asks instead. "Tomatoes, pickles, hold the onions?"

His brother's forehead scrunches up into thin faint lines when he raises his eyebrows, nonplussed. "Dude," he says, sounding almost like himself for the first time in… in a long time. "What's the matter with you?"

Sam widens his eyes innocently, then on second thought narrows them, trying to be like in the old days, _Sammy _instead of _Sam_. "What are you talking about? I'm just trying to see if you want a hamburger, you jerk."

Dean looks suspicious, but after a moment of staring silently he wearily shuts his eyes again and tells Sam to not forget the goddamn pickles. Bitch.

Buoyed by success, Sam buys the burger, grinning the entire time.

He also buys an entire box of donuts, because really, fuck it all. They'll be fine.

**_Now_**

Lilith skips over the twitching body of the thirty-ninth, putting her in the middle of the circle. She mutters something under her breath, and Sam steps closer eagerly, curiously, trying to make out what it is. As soon as he does so, however, her eyes flare white and she puts out a hand in warning.

He stops, stomach roiling.

"_Not yet_," Lilith tells him rigidly, something too great for words flashing in her expression. "It's not _right_ yet."

He swallows, ashamed. But then she smiles at him briefly, despite his insolence, and Sam relaxes, humbled by her mercy.

"Witch." Her voice is ragged but clear. Without the inflection of a child's speech, it suddenly sounds otherworldly. "You have proven yourself loyal."

Sam watches Ruby freeze, then drop to her knees, shaking with fear.

"I live to serve," she answers. Large, tremulous tears begin to steadily run down her face.

"Come then," Lilith beckons to her. "We will raise Him together."

Ruby chokes and stumbles to her feet. She runs almost blindly into the circle, slipping on wet blood before righting herself, muttering _thank you, thank you _over and over until she practically falls in front of the little girl.

Sam watches, envious, and does nothing.

"Hush now," Lilith says soothingly, small hand patting the dark head. "My dear, dear Ruby, don't cry. You will be special, my love. You will be the key."

The woman's shaking stops, and she looks up. "Y-you - you will tell Him?" she whispers, so softly Sam can barely hear her.

Lilith kisses her mouth warmly, then her forehead. "I will be sure to."

The woman's eyes widen. Another salty drop spills out, landing on the bloody ground.

"Thank you," she whispers again, then falls silent. She closes her eyes, and lays her head against Lilith's soft, warm stomach, as if returning to a loving mother's embrace.

She smiles a little, then, and makes no noise when Lilith snaps her neck.

_**Then**_

He lingers beside Dean's bed, a last moment of weakness. It's all right because no one's awake to see, and even if Castiel or one of the others shows up, there's really nothing they can do to stop him. Castiel made that clear enough when he was defeated by Alastair, when he failed to protect Dean. Sam's the only one who can do that now, the only one Dean can count on. He's so very far from righteous, but to save Dean from his fate, Sam would do anything.

Even save the world.

He sits lightly, cautiously on the bed, even though Dean returned from hell an incredibly heavy sleeper. Force of habit, Sam supposes to himself idly, or maybe just because it feels appropriate, under the cover of night, before sneaking away to fight the apocalypse.

...Strange. Only hours before the telling moment, and Dean is sleeping deeply, peacefully, without the slightest clue.

Hopefully he will stay that way.

His hand makes as if to touch Dean's face, but he stops it mid-motion, remembering himself just in time. And there's no point to this sentimentality anyway, Sam reminds himself, because he'll be back soon enough, after all.

Because there's no other way this could end. Sam is _not _accepting anything but a happy ending - the Winchesters will not have bloody _or_ sad.

He can succeed where Dean would fail. He's strong enough, capable enough, with no memory of hell to make him falter. He can take the burden put on Dean, finish this, and then… and then, they will put everything behind them. Hunting, demons, all of it. And then Sam will be able to remember what he has, and he'll help Dean remember who he _is_, and then…

...And then.

They'll be brothers again.

Sam lets his hand fall. "Sorry," he whispers, because somethinghas to be said, even if Dean can't hear it. It's that kind of moment.

He stands. Hesitates.

"I'll be back soon," he promises too. Because he will, he _will_.

When Sam leaves the room, he's so focused on what is yet to come that he doesn't hear the rustle from the bed he just left.

…Or the slight hitch of breath, as if someone is strangling a cry.

**_Now_**

The circle lights up brilliantly when Ruby's head hits the floor, the crimson glowing and the sickly yellow light growing stronger, brighter.

And yes, Sam decides, it's beautiful.

Lilith breaks off from her chanting. "Ready, Sam?" she asks, white eyes staring blindly upwards, but this time she sounds nothing like the little girl she's possessing, but something else – something more ancient, more powerful than Sam can ever possibly comprehend.

It excites him. Strength courses freely through his veins in an uninhibited dance, exhilarated just from the proximity to its sister's power. It's such an adrenaline rush that Sam feels almost lightheaded, dizzy, but not in a bad way, exactly, not in a bad way at all. He feels like building the Tower of Babel, like flying to the moon, like ripping someone's head from their shoulders.

He feels _good_.

He raises his chin, somehow knowing his pupils are blown so wide his eyes practically look black. "I am."

Lilith raises her little bloody hands to the sky, shouting in a language Sam doesn't know and yet thoroughly understands.

"_The body is prepared_." A breeze picks up, lifting Lilith's black hair. "_The soul is willing._" Trees creak as they sway. "_The mind is eager._" Thunder, in the distance.

Lilith throws back her head and opens her blind eyes. Her next words are more a raw sentiment than a prescribed verse, but somehow it fits.

"_Fuck you, God. Rise, Lucifer!_"

_**Then**_

"He actually thinks this will work," he says at the sound of wings fluttering, the feeling of a familiar presence settle on the leather seat next to him. His eyes, set firmly on the horizon, are anything but tranquil. "Taking on Lucifer alone. He actually thinks he can win."

"Sam may be strong enough," his companion admits. "But that is irrelevant. Once he encounters Lilith, his vision will be… clouded."

He glances at him. "Clouded?"

A sigh. "The blood that provides Sam with strength also makes him extremely vulnerable to… certain influences. Whatever Sam's intentions are, they will conveniently disappear once the seal begins to break – which is, most likely, what Lilith and Lucifer are counting on." He pauses, then continues quietly, "I'm afraid it will grant Lucifer a considerable advantage."

"Fantastic," Dean says bleakly "How big an advantage are we talking about?"

Hesitation. The angel looks away, wets his lips. "Dean…"

Fingers clutch the wheel tightly, knuckles growing white. "Cas," he says. "If there was ever a time to tell it to me straight, it's right. Fucking. Now."

"…If Sam and Lucifer fight over the same body, Sam will fall."

**_Now_**

The swollen yellow turns to a murky brown, darkens to black that gets consumed in a blinding flash of white. The earth shudders. The circle's design rises from the ground and spins about Lilith, who stands at the eye of the storm, eyes wide open and lifeless.

The sky breaks open with a crack of lightning. There's no rain.

Lilith raises her hand, and the blood of forty possessed humans begins to glow.

_**Then**_

"...Fall? What does that mean, 'fall'? What's gonna happen to him?"

"Lucifer will be greatly strengthened by having Sam as his vessel. He will become bound to the body and this earth, no longer able to be exorcised by normal means. And with Sam's powers…" Pause. "He'll be unstoppable. I'm sorry."

A moment stretches out, only filled by the dull roar of the engine as it stops, and a long, shuddering breath.

"You didn't answer my question, Cas. What about my brother? What'll happen to Sam?"

"Lucifer will not allow the presence of another soul in his vessel. I… I'm afraid Sam won't survive."

**_Now_**

His power sings, rushing through his veins. This, it tells him. This is his cue.

He squares his shoulders.

_**Then**_

"Then you can't let him get to that point, Cas, you can't let him do it. Knock him out, blast him with some angel mojo, I don't care. Whatever it takes." Pause. "Please, Cas. You gotta help me save him."

"I… I'd like to, Dean, but the breaking of the seal can no longer be prevented. The apocalypse _is_ coming, understand? Lucifer _will _have a vessel."

"I know, I- I realize that." A long, drawn-out exhale. "But still. I can't let Sam… I can't let him do that. I can't. I don't care what he's done, this is Sam."

Gently. "He knew the risks, he's made his choice –"

"_Then I'm unmaking it for him!_"

Castiel closes his eyes, knowing full well that it is a futile gesture. "…What would you have me do?"

"Promise me, Cas. Whatever you need to do, whatever it takes. You'll do it. You'll save him."

He nods.

Then frowns. "What about you?"

**_Now_**

Sam steps forward.

_**Then**_

"...Dean?"

**_Now_**

His foot hangs in the air, perfectly still.

It's not until it slowly comes back down a good distance away that Sam snaps out of… whatever it was he had to snap out of. Soon after which Sam becomes aware that things are _not _going according to plan.

…And that's before he realizes he can't move.

He panics, but the heartbeat in his ears doesn't change its tempo. His eyes don't blink, his hands don't run through his hair in his confusion. Instead a white film blankets his vision, and a sense – a _presence_ – of calm, of peace, surrounds Sam like tepid bathwater.

It kind of feels familiar.

_!Sam.!_

_…Castiel? _he thinks, since apparently he can't move his mouth to speak.

_!Yes.!_

He doesn't understand at first, but then it hits him. _Are you – are you _possessing _me?_

The white recedes, leaving his sight with a dazzling afterimage. _!It was a necessary measure.!_

Under any other circumstance, Sam would be absolutely livid at this violation of his body – by the angel who's failed his brother countless times, no less. But his head is clear for the first time in hours, the strange want to obey and, for some reason, hug Lilith is gone, and the only thing he can feel is a staggering, overwhelming _relief_.

Followed by horror.

_God, I – I almost –_

_!Almost let Lucifer take possession of the most powerful human on Earth.!_

If Sam could wince, he would.

…_I thought I could beat him. I've gotten stronger. I didn't think it would affect me like… like that. _He suddenly recalls his reunion with Lilith._ God, I… I was a goner from the very start, wasn't I. _

_!Aside from granting you power, the blood you… procured, has made you very, very vulnerable to certain coercions. If I hadn't stopped you, you would have relinquished control of your body __willingly__. There would have been no fight.!_

_But now there will be, _he thinks determinedly. _Thanks for that, Castiel. I owe you one. But I'm gonna need you to leave now, all right? I don't think there's enough room in here for three._

There's obvious surprise in the angel's thoughts. _!You mean to try again?_

_Um, obviously._

_!You will not succeed.!_

Sam goes through a mental checklist, but he can't find anything to corroborate Castiel's claim; everything seems like it's in running order. He feels his power stir again, quietly, in the bottom of his soul. _And why's that, exactly?_

_!The last seal requires willing participants. You seek to defeat Lucifer, push him out of your mind. The seal will no longer recognize you.! _

_So the plan, my plan, would have never worked in the first place? Is… is that what you're saying?_

_Yes._

_I... I see. _He takes a moment._ So is that it? _he wonders. _Does this mean it's all over?_

_!You are only the ideal receptacle for Lucifer, Sam. Not the only one. My brothers and sisters are fighting as we speak, but sooner or later someone will slip through our defenses and offer Lucifer a vessel to inhabit.! _

_Shit_, he thinks vehemently, and the expletive amplifies and multiplies in his mind into a hundred echoing swears. _Isn't there any way for you to somehow… reseal the seal? I can buy you time, fight off anything that comes close -_

_!No. It's too late for that. Lucifer will have a body, that much is assured.!_

The angel's voice – tone – is unreadable, something held back in their tenuous connection, a thought, perhaps an idea. He has no idea what it is, but merged as they are, Sam can sense a deep sadness coming from Cas that, restrained as it is, nonetheless overflows into him. It mystifies him for a moment – angels aren't really supposed to have emotions, after all – but then Sam realizes he's missing something.

A very important something.

A horrible, _impossible_ suspicion enters Sam's mind, and as much as he tries to fight it off, he just can't shake it.

Because if the angel is here, then.

Then -

_Cas… where's Dean?_

_**Then**_

"You always said I'm the only one who can stop it. You never said how."

Castiel takes a deep breath. He doesn't actually need to, he knows, and yet…

And yet.

"Ever since you showed up, it's always been like that. 'Save the world, Dean Winchester.' 'Stop the apocalypse, ye mortal.' Except you never told me the first thing on how to go about doing that. You didn't even tell me where the seals were." Dry chuckle. "Drove me crazy, you know."

"Dean, I - I wasn't told everything. And there were things I wasn't… wasn't allowed to say."

Green eyes look over at him, steady in their gaze. "I know. I realize that. And you know what, I finally get why." His lips quirk – a small, Deanesque sort of gesture that somehow wounds the angel to see. It's not the smile he knows, but, as Castiel knows full well, it is the smile he deserves. "It's a lot easier to save the world if you think you're making a choice."

Cas wonders if this is what humans feel like all the time, small and ignorant and utterly helpless. "What do you mean?" he asks softly. His vessel's heart constricts, unbidden.

Dean smiles wistfully.

"...It's funny, you know. All this time, I was worried I'd have to kill Sam."

**_Now_**

_Where's Dean? _Sam repeats, and again, Castiel doesn't reply. _He's not – Cas, please tell me—_

Dean didn't come with you. Please tell me Dean's not here.

"Cas, you in there?" A familiar voice asks, jolting Sam's attention outward.

…No. _No._

Sam's lips move, and his head bobs downward in a nod. "I am."

Dean smirks, eyes reflecting a white torrent of light he probably can't see. His short hair ruffles a little in the wind. "I gotta hand it to you, when I said to do whatever it takes to stop Sam, this was really not one of the things that came to mind. Thought you angels had a free will clause in your rulebook."

"It's a courtesy," Castiel says with Sam's mouth, teaching even now. "Nothing more."

"Huh. Well, you won't hear me complaining. Sam –" he clears his throat. "Sam okay in there?"

_No NO Dean you bastard I am NOT okay I am NOT fucking OKAY!_

"…He's listening."

Dean blinks. His expression looks torn between dread and relief, then seems to settle on dread. "Oh. That… didn't know you could do that. Uh. So… he can hear me, right now?"

_Cas, get out of my body, get the FUCK out of my body!_

"Yes," Cas says.

"Right. Okay." Dean glances over at Lilith, who's waiting mindlessly over Ruby's body. "Well, I gotta go, but Cas, you stay with Sam, okay? I don't really know how possession works, but if you can give his powers a little extra kick… well, it'd be really fucking helpful, is all I'm saying."

Some part of Sam notes, even as he struggles wildly, how entirely screwed up it is that Dean sounds more together than he's been in months, now, with the apocalypse not five feet away.

"I will do my best."

"Thanks," and Dean smiles. For the first time in months, it reaches his eyes. "And hey, Sam? You blast Lucy with everything you got, all right? Don't hold back."

_What are you… what is he talking about?_

_!Sam, I told you. Lucifer will have a vessel.!_

He doesn't understand._ What does that have to do with…_ he starts, then feels something in him shatter, crack, freeze._ No. No. It can't be - you can't mean that – _

_!I… I'm afraid so.!_

_He's not – he can't. This… this is crazy, Cas, this is beyond crazy, this is INSANE._

_!I'm sorry, Sam,! _The angel tells him, and for a moment he can feel the grief that is Castiel's flood over him. _!It's the only way.!_

It takes a moment for all of it to truly sink in, Sam's failure and Dean's decision and all of the ramifications, all the possibilities, all the things that can't ever happen, now, that never will, and then emotions roil and punish their way through him, all the guilt and rage and devastating fear, threatening to burst and take him out with them -

_Fuck that. FUCK that, you hear me? FUCK the only way, you did NOT save Dean from hell just so he could throw it all away!_

_!You are angry. Understandably so. Please, do as you like, but I feel… the same as you.!_

Dean claps a warm hand unto Sam's immobile shoulder, and turns.

_W-wait. Wait! Cas, you can't let him go! You can't – you can't let him die! Please, I'll… I'll do anything,_ _Cas, I promise, I _swear_, just don't let him go!_

_!This is his choice. If I could… but I can't. I cannot stop him.!_

_**Then**_

"I wish it didn't have to be like this," Castiel says, and for the first time in his long, want-less life, he utterly comprehends why an angel could fall. Such dangerous, precious things, this human teaches him. "I wish I could save you."

Dean glances at him for a long, silent moment. Then, for some reason Castiel fails to understand, he seems to feel the need to reach out a hand and roughly ruffle Castiel's already windblown hair.

What a bizarre human gesture, Castiel thinks to himself distantly, even as the warmth in his chest threatens to rise and choke him at the throat.

"Don't worry about me, Cas," his friend says simply, eyes bright in the morning light. "Just save Sam."

**_Now_**

"Dean!"

The figure of his brother is blurred, but it stops moving.

"You _can't_, Dean," he says, struggling with the words. Castiel won't let him do more than talk, but suddenly even that seems more than hard enough. "You – you just _can't_."

Somehow Dean seems to know it's him. He looks back. "I gotta do this, Sam. I'm sorry. I have to."

_!He has to,!_ Castiel echoes.

Sam's had enough of those apologies, enough of hearing _sorry_. Sorry means nothing, sorry gets you nowhere – those are lessons Sam knows very well by now.

Actions are what matters. Going back in time and not dying this time around, going back in time and do it all over again, and _right_. Shoving his brother into the car so they could drive and drive and never get out. Grabbing Dean, holding onto him so he can't ever leave, no matter what the fucking jerk wants or thinks.

He can't do any of that, though.

It's ridiculous. There shouldn't be a choice about this, there shouldn't even be a fucking _decision_, Dean should stay because he's supposed to, that's what he does, this is where he _belongs – _here, with Sam, being nothing more or less than Sam's stupid, irritating, amazing older brother_._

...But Dean has to.

"I know," he chokes out, wetness running down his cheeks, because apparently his eyes work just fine. "Me... me too. I'm sorry too."

Dean hesitates for only a moment before wrapping his arms around Sam, his warmth solid and comforting in every way except for how it'll soon be gone.

Sam wants to hold on tighter, as if that way he'll be able to stop time, or maybe absorb enough of Dean into himself so that he'll be fine... except that will never happen, no matter how much he might like it to.

He can't even hug him back.

_Cas, _he says.

_!Would you let him go?_

And Sam can't really deny that no, of course not. Of course he won't.

"Take care of yourself, Sam," Dean whispers tightly in his ear, voice only trembling a little. He takes a deep breath, as if to say something else – _keep fighting, take care of my wheels, go for that white picket fence, Sammy, remember Dad, remember me – _

But then, all too quickly, lets go and steps over the line.

"Dean!" Sam screams. "_DEAN!_"

The circle flares red, and the world glows.


	2. no use trying to change it

**_That Perches In The Soul_**

* * *

_A/N: You can all thank PADavis for this chapter, because if it wasn't for her prodding I probably would have left the fic where it was - or at least, taken a heck of a long time to get here. Kinda had major writing block. I'm not going to say much, because I've been on a non-stop writing spree for the past two or three hours and it's 4 in the freaking morning right now, but please read and tell me if this was a bad, bad idea, because there were several ways to take this, and I kind of just closed my eyes and randomly picked one. _

_If it _was_ a bad idea__, you have my full permission to pretend this chapter never happened.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for all episodes up to 4x16. _

* * *

Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul,  
And sings the tune-without the words,  
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;  
And sore must be the storm  
That could abash the little bird  
That kept so many warm...

* * *

**_Then_**

"…You never let me have any fun."

There's a loud snap as the sawed-off's reloaded. Dean grins easily, carelessly. "Little known fact: there's a height requirement. You are officially too short to have fun."

"_I'm not short!_"

"Dude, I've met pixies taller than you."

"That's not – that's not true!_ Dad!_"

"Dean." Dad says the name, as he often does, with a sigh. He continues packing. "Stop provoking your baby brother."

"_Hey –"_

"Sorry, sir," Dean replies cheerfully. "Sorry, baby brother."

Sam scowls. "Dean!"

His brother smirks the smirk he always wears when something's just too amusing to keep a deadpan look for. "Watch it with the face, baby brother. You never know, it just might stick."

"_Your_ face might stick," he throws back.

"We can only hope," Dean agrees. "Seeing as how I am the pretty one."

Sam widens his eyes indignantly. At a loss for a reply, he turns once more to a higher power. "Dad!"

Absently: "You're pretty too, Sammy."

"_Dad!_"

Dad blinks owlishly. "What?"

Sam growls under his breath, and turns his attention back to his jerk of a big brother. "I should be coming with you! I'm old enough! I'm _ten!_"

"Ooh, I'm so scaaaared," Dean wiggles his fingers. "Except I'm kidding. Frankly, Sammy, the only threatening thing about you is your hair, which is only because I think it might be hiding a small third world country inside. And like, three zoos." He pauses, then grins. "Methinks it's time for a haircut…"

Sam steps back, hands flying protectively to his head. "No way! Don't touch my hair!"

"Hey, it grew out last time -"

"After months! I looked dumb for _months_!"

"You look dumb twenty four seven. Your hair was short for months," Dean says. "Besides, mohawk's a good look on you," he adds, after which he wisely darts to the bathroom, locking the door before Sam can attempt fratricide for the second time in as many days.

Sam wracks his mind for the most horrible insult he can think of. "You… you _jerk_!" he hurls at the door.

Dean just cackles.

He scowls, then rolls his eyes. It's not like Sam doesn't know how to pick a lock, but bathrooms have always been considered safe spots in the Winchester rulebook since the Nair incident, so for the moment Dean is safe. Sam isn't about to mess with truce rules, and anyways, he has bigger fish to fry.

He turns to the bed, and definitely doesn't whine when he repeats, "_Dad_!"

"Sorry, Sammy," his father says while eyeing the blade of his Rambo knife, "Deano's right. You gotta stay behind on this one."

"But I'm _ten_," he says again. "And I've already gone hunting _millions_ of times."

"_Twice_," comes the totally-uncalled-for correction from the bathroom.

"No one asked you!" he yells back.

"Shut it, both of you," John orders, and after a second of contemplation he tosses the knife into the duffle bag. When his sharp gaze finally turns on Sam, the boy can't help but gulp a little, because sitting down doesn't cover for the fact that John's a huge man, and even now his head has to crane down to look his son in the eye. "You're not coming with us, and that's final. This hunt is too dangerous."

"Then why does Dean get to go?" He's not whining. Sam never whines.

"'Cause I'm awesome, obviously."

John's the one to roll his eyes at the door this time. "Because we're hunting a werewolf, Sammy, and I need backup."

"So why can't I come?" he retorts more quietly, shooting a covert glance at the bathroom door. "I'll be Dean's backup!"

A rare smile spreads over John's face. "Someday, kiddo. Just not today."

"_Dean_ got to hunt black dogs when he was ten, Dad," he points out, glaring. "And I'm just a good a shot as he is!"

"First off, he wasn't doing any shooting -"

"But he was _there_! Why am I any different?"

He gets off the bed and crouches to Sam's eye level, pinning him with a thoughtful John Winchester gaze, then prods Sam's ribcage with every word he speaks, as if to drive it further in. "Because Dean is Dean, and you are you, and…"

Sam blinks, then stares pointedly.

His dad sighs and runs a hand through his hair, as if suddenly realizing that what could pass for an explanation at the age of four maybe wouldn't quite cut it at the ripe old age of ten. He sits back on his heels and continues more softly, hand settling on Sam's shoulder, "What I mean is… Sammy, you can't do everything Dean does, just like Dean can't do everything you do. I need him to come with me, and I need you to hold down the fort while we're gone. That's just the way things work right now, all right?"

Sam crosses his arms, unimpressed. "That's discrimination," he frowns.

His dad shakes his head in wry amusement. He unfurls his legs and ruffles Sam's hair as he rises.

"Sorry, kiddo. You can't change who you are." John smiles again, quick and sad. "You can only be you."

**_Now _**

The light dies.

A different world surrounds them. All traces of life have wilted, trees and grass gone dry and skeletal as if there has been here a drought for years, decades. The soil itself has turned desiccated and parched; studding it are little lumps of what might have been small mammals or birds not five minutes ago. The only constants are the solemn graves and the blue of the sky.

One small and impossibly-distant part of Sam notes that he's never actually experienced the actual, uninterrupted lack of sound before; even when Sam was in the middle of nowhere with no car in sight, whether at three in the morning or three in the afternoon, Oregon or Louisiana, there was always something happening, a coyote calling or the car starting or the wind blowing or just his brother, just his brother breathing, living, being.

No, this isn't a normal silence. This is, this is more – this is _absence_. All the sounds Sam's ears hadn't acknowledged before, crickets and bird calls and the rumble of cars on the highway, are gone as completely as if they've been lost in a vacuum.

…Except Sam suspects that isn't exactly the truth.

The wind begins again to rustle quietly, as if called into being by Sam's mere thought. There's a thickness to the air, a solidity that cannot be seen, only felt, and he's not altogether sure what it is, exactly.

But he thinks it might be death.

The circles Lilith had inscribed so painstakingly have disappeared, though some blood remains. Where there were corpses are now piles of ashes and charred bones. And in the middle of it all Dean stands, Lilith slumped by his side like a lost porcelain figurine.

Nothing appears all that different about him, initially – he's wearing exactly the same clothes, his hair is still cut the exact same way. But Dean's face is turned toward the sun, light flooding what little of his face they can see, and Sam has the strange, fleeting thought that maybe the only reason the sky is the same is because Dean wanted it that way.

Dean, or…

Or.

Sam and Castiel step together into the remnants of the circle – one body, two minds. Sam doesn't even know if it's the angel's will or his own, but it doesn't matter anymore.

…Very little matters anymore.

**_Then_**

"I still think it's stupid," Sammy complains three days later, even as he grins in relief when the door unlocks and opens to show both Winchesters smiling, safe and sound.

"Your face is stupid," Dean returns archly, and proceeds to noogie Sam into submission.

**_Now_**

Dean shakes his arms, his legs, as if they've been asleep for a very long time. He looks away from the sun with a blank expression that makes the back of Sam's neck crawl.

"Master," Lilith says in a reverent whisper, touching a bloody hand to his knees.

Dean gazes down at the little girl, face impassive.

He says nothing.

"Dean?" Sam whispers and steps forward, bracing himself but hoping against hope anyway because here, at the end of everything, he can't be anyone but Sammy after all.

Dean's head turns. Their eyes meet.

And Sam feels something inside him wither.

...Dean's green is gone, replaced with a gleaming, pupil-less white that every now and then seems to flicker from the inside with the charred yellow and blue of candlelight. And yet somehow his face has collected more shadows rather than less; they soften and perfect the contours of his features while dimly obscuring his expressions, as if despite everything he is standing under a midnight sky rather the burning ball of afternoon summer sun.

His shoulders are straighter, somehow broader, but he is lithe now rather than stocky; relaxed rather than tense; his posture is so easy and graceful it almost seems unnatural until Sam realizes that it's what Dean might have looked like, if not for burdens and regrets and life. If not for disappointments. If not for family.

If not for Sam.

Dean's mouth opens, elegantly shapes itself around the words.

"_Azazel's child_."

Sam's throat tightens.

"Lucifer," he whispers.

The lord of hell stares at him distantly for a moment, as if checking something in his head, then uses Dean's mouth again to speak.

"_This vessel of mine seems to have been causing problems,_"it says, the voice a strange mix of Dean and _other._

Lilith suddenly looks terrified. "We didn't expect an interference, Master, your true vessel was under complete submission until – "

"_Spare me your excuses._"

She shuts up.

"_My army is delayed. Angels are holding my horsemen at bay._"

He spreads his arms and takes a long breath, suddenly smiling widely as he lets it loose.

"…But _damn_, this feels good."

Sam gapes incredulously. "_Dean_?" he can't stop himself from blurting.

That familiar smirk. "The one and only."

_!Don't listen, Sam. It's not him.!_

Dean's eyebrows rise. He steps closer, delight almost brightening his face. "Castiel? Is that you in there, brother?"

"Return to hell, Lucifer," Cas says with Sam's mouth, more desperate than Sam's ever heard him. "Let your vessel go. Please. This doesn't have to end with death."

"Probably not," he agrees. "But I'd really rather it did."

"You know you cannot win," Cas tries again, voice low and intense. "Our Father would never let you."

"Oh? He's let me get this far, hasn't He?"

"That means nothing -"

"How would you know Father's will, Castiel? You've never even seen him." He smiles, razor sharp. "…Or has that changed while I was down there?"

Castiel grits Sam's teeth. "You must stop this," he says, ignoring the jibe.

"Must I?" the other angel says. "No, I think I'm gonna stick around for a while yet. One trait I do happen to share with our old man, Castiel – we both do like to keep things interesting."

He circles Sam's body, considering them thoughtfully.

"And speaking of interesting, what a _unique_ combination we have here," he remarks. "A human, a demon, and a third-tier angel." Dean's lips quirk. With a twist of his hand, a pillar rises from the ground, quickly shaping itself into a sleek black throne. He sits down languidly, resting his chin on his hand, propped up by an armrest. It all takes barely an instant. "Sounds like the start of a bad joke. Is this really the best God can do?"

_A demon. _Sam feels his hands tremble at his side.

Blood or no blood, Dean would never say anything like that. Dean would _never_ –

"_Get out of him_," he says, trying to be intimidating and sounding anything but. The words exit his mouth in a mumbled whisper, one by one, each threatening to drown him in grief (_this isn't Dean, this isn't isn't isn't him)_ and terror _(power so much power this is Lucifer God God this is Satan he's never felt this much power, never came close to _having_ this kind of power they're so screwed everyone is)_.

Lucifer blinks at him.

"Sorry?" the angel inquires politely.

Sam raises his voice shakily, heart aching hopelessly with the void Dean left behind. "Get out of my brother. It's me you want. I'm your vessel."

_!Sam…!_

White eyes examine him in idle curiosity. "…So?"

He spreads his arms widely, desperately, because there's nothing more to lose, nothing more to gain, after all these years of pushing everything away Sam finally has nothing left but himself. "So I'm your _vessel_! Take _me_! I'm _right here_, take me instead of him!"

A long moment passes. Dean's eyebrow rises dubiously, the white gaze even and unblinking. Sam drops his arms and swallows, mouth dry, and can't help but feel somewhat ridiculous.

"Come, child," Lucifer says reproachfully, his tone so very Dean even if his words are not. He bats his free hand carelessly at Sam as he leans back. "I appreciate the offer, don't get me wrong, but you do know it's too late, don't you? The binding's permanent; for all intents and purposes I _am _your brother. As I would have been you, if not for someone letting an angel near the seal," he adds, turning to Lilith, voice as light as if merely rebuking her for drawing on the walls in crayon. "You disappoint me, darling."

She actually cowers, throwing herself onto the ground in absolute terror. "Master - " is all she gets out before she is hurledinto the trunk of a tree, the pale neck snapping with a loud echoing crack.

Sam stares. The angel has barely moved a finger.

"Like I said." Dean never sounded so cold. "_Disappointing_."

She rises slowly from the ground to her feet, groaning a little as her vertebrae click back into place. "Master," she breathes, and her whisper strangled and hoarse.

"That said, however…" As he reclines in his throne, Dean's body seems somehow elongated, his build even leaner than before. His legs stretch, one at a time, as if itching to pace. "You did free me, and this body suits me well enough – if not perfectly. For that, you will be rewarded."

Lilith relaxes, head bowed.

His eyes narrow. "But first learn your lesson. Return to hell, daughter, and lead your brothers."

He points at her idly, then snaps his finger up. Sam and Castiel watch as Lilith throws her head back and shrieks, a cloud of black smoke rising out of the little girl's mouth until her body crumples to the earth, finally dead.

"Shame about that," Lucifer remarks almost regretfully, drawing Sam's attention. He's gazing at the corpse with unmistakable desire. "The kid's kinda cute, don't you think?"

Sam's arms creep with goosebumps. He turns away in disgust.

_!My brother has fallen far,! _Castiel whispers to him sadly.

Lucifer laughs at that, the sound deep and clear and resonating like a bell. Red roses grow and unfurl by his feet, thorny black stems growing, stretching, as if seeking to draw closer to its source. He caresses their bloody petals absently.

"Oh, Castiel," he says merrily, flames receding from his eyes. "I've forgotten your fondness for stating the obvious." His grin widens. "I _am _the lord of Hell, after all."

"More like its prisoner," Sam mutters, and instantly regrets it.

_!That was foolish,! _Castiel agrees.

Lucifer doesn't miss a beat, though his eyes narrow as he peers at Sam closely, the white gaze more than disconcerting when fully focused on him.

"Samuel, isn't it?" he says suddenly.

And Sam flinches.

Despite everything he knows, everything he's seen, despite the finished ritual and the hard facts and the alien eyes – this is still Dean's face looking back at him without any real recognition, still Dean's voice declaring him nothing but a stranger. Still Dean, except for that one single question, that one single word which means that one step into a circle had been enough to change _everything –_

Castiel's bright, sorrowful warmth sweeps through him like a rising tide, and Sam frowns in confusion before he comes to realize that this is the angel's attempt at comfort.

He smiles inwardly, brokenly. Much as he's grateful for the effort, it does little. Only one thing could really do the trick.

…And that's gone.

_Your fault, _he thinks to himself, lump in his throat making it impossible to utter a word. _You stupid, delusional idiot, you did this, this is all because of you –_

Lucifer doesn't seem to be expecting a reply. He searches Sam's face impassively for a long moment - although for what, Sam has no idea.

Abruptly, the thoughtful expression changes. A thin smile spreads across the shadowy face.

"No," Lucifer murmurs softly, and Sam forgets to breathe. "Not Samuel. _Sammy_."

His eyes sting. He clenches his fists.

"Or will you tell me it's Sam now?" The fallen angel smirks and rises gracefully from his throne. He strides nimbly down the steps of the dais – he really _is_ taller, Sam notices bewilderedly – nonchalantly ruffling Sam's hair as he passes.

The gesture is warm, familiar; both Castiel and Sam recoil.

Lucifer doesn't give the impression that he cares. He shrugs John Winchester's old leather jacket off his shoulders and lets it fall to the ground without a second thought.

"Tell me, little Sam," he says, pausing some yards away, eyes expressionless and frigid as they survey the vast old cemetery. "How many times did you regret it? How many times did you wish I hadn't saved you from death?"

It takes Sam a moment to find his voice.

"Cut it out," he says quietly. "You're not him. You could never _be_ him. My brother's gone." He squeezes his eyes shut for a second. "He's gone, and he's… he's not coming back."

That tentative warmth. _!I'm sorry.!_

_I know._

Lucifer rolls his eyes at them.

"Well, if we _must_ use that particular interpretation of events," he says dryly. "Then would you care to know what Dean's last thoughts were before I wiped him from existence?"

Sam doesn't stop to think.

_!That bastard,! _ Castiel snarls, then _!No, no Sam don't - !_

Sam's fist comes flying at Lucifer's head (Lucifer and not Dean, a fallen angel and _not Dean_), and as he does the part of him that is not drowned in rage and blood wonders, softly, if there's any way back from this.

If there ever was.

"Oh, Sammy," Lucifer says with a familiar put-upon sigh. He lets Sam hang in the air, motionless, and with one gesture tosses Sam onto his back. "I forget how stupid you are sometimes."

Sam just grunts as he hits the ground. He looks up at the thing that used to be his brother. Used to be, because Dean had never been that lean, his cheeks never that sharp.

For all their lives put them through, Dean had never looked like he was _hungry._

It hits him again. Dean is gone.

"Why can't you leave him alone?" he whispers, staring dully as the world around Lucifer blurs and gleams.

Lucifer smiles at him kindly from above. "After all the trouble I went through to get here? Oh, Sammy, I don't think so. This party is just getting started."

"Lousy party," he croaks out, and feels Cas agree wholeheartedly.

Laughter. The sound makes Sam shiver. "And here I always thought you had no sense of humor," Lucifer says, eyes crinkling sharply at the corners.

It's too painful. "You don't know me," Sam says. "You never knew me."

The angel smiles at him indulgently.

"According to my… host, it's kinda cliché for a villain to offer the hero to join him," Lucifer says, out of the blue. He gazes at the sky, almost wistfully. "Mostly because the hero's usually too noble to give a shit." He smirks. "So. Tell me. Should I even bother?"

Sam glares. "Go to hell."

His brows rise peaceably. "I'm sorry, was I talking to you?"

Sam's eyes widen.

_Cas, _he thinks urgently. _Cas, you can't... can't you? I know Dean's gone, I know I'm not him, not anything like him, but you can't, you can't possibly - _

Cas doesn't reply, but he does take control of Sam's mouth for a moment.

And he says, simply, "Get out of Dean."

Lucifer narrows his eyes. In the time it takes Sam to blink his hand darts out, takes hold of Sam's collar and pitches him across the cemetery. Taken by surprise, it's only with Castiel's help that Sam manages to force down the lethal velocity - he throws out his arms and stops himself mid-air just before hitting a headstone. He lands clumsily, and staggers to his feet.

_Nice teamwork,_ he thinks.

_!Yes,! _Cas replies. _!I believe we'll shortly have an opportunity to perfect it.!_

His eyes narrow. _Bring it on._

Meanwhile, the fallen angel grins over at them, sitting high on his throne.

"In case you were wondering," he calls out brightly, "that was a no."


End file.
